Oh, What a Circus!
by Kate Browne
Summary: What happens when Robert Hogan, his wife, Sam Flagg, and Rodney Crittendon all find themselves at MASH 4077?
1. Chapter 1

**Oh, What a Circus!**

**Seoul****: February 1952**

Brig. Gen. Robert E. Hogan spooned against his wife, tried to sleep, but gave up in frustration. Kissing her bare shoulder, he rolled away from her, onto his back. He usually slept very contentedly, very soundly after making love with Miri, but not tonight. Tonight, it'd had too much of the good-bye to it. Hogan put his hand under his head, stared at the ceiling, and emitted a low sigh. The alarm clock ticked softly on the bedside table even as the cold wind rattled the windowpanes of their small house. Exhaling loudly, Hogan roughly turned onto his right side. He thumped his body into the mattress as if he were trying to subdue it. Nothing happened. Sleep didn't magically come. He flopped over onto his left side, using his head and feet as pivots. He landed heavily.

Miri leaned backwards, groaned crossly. "Robin, will you settle?"

"What? No foot?"

She scooted around to face him. "All right, Robin. Out with it. What's bothering you?"

"Would you believe I just can't sleep?" he teased lightly. It sounded false in his own ears.

"No," she replied. "After seven years of marriage, Robert, I know when something's the matter with you. And when you're lying to me." She raised up on an elbow. "If you can't tell me, I will understand. Official secrets are nothing new to me."

He stroked her arm gently. "There's very little I don't tell you. I just don't _want _to tell you this."

"You're leaving for the front."

Hogan leaned into his pillow and smiled gently up at her as he asked, "What gave me away?"

"We made love as if we'd never get the chance again."

"At least we didn't break any bed slats this time."

"Good thing. I just had the bed repaired." She tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

He reached out and pulled her to him. "I'm sorry, my love, but yes, I'm going to the front, looking for a needle in a haystack. What I'll do with it when, if I find it, I still don't know." Hogan hated being I Corps' head intelligence officer--the renegade, self-aggrandizing operatives gave him headaches. And despite the uniform, they all worked for the same Company.

"Sam Flagg." She spat the name as if it were an oath.

"Bingo." Hogan's tolerance for fools and slipshod work had never been high. "We haven't had an accurate intelligence report from him in 3 months. And what we do get is such a hash of Commie paranoia and wishful thinking." He wiped his face with his hand. Frustration tinged his words: "The scary thing is, Miri, he makes Crittendon look intelligent."

Miri giggled. "Rodney's not so bad. He grows splendid geraniums."

Hogan threw himself on his back, carrying her with him. He groaned, "Oh, give me a break! This is the same Crittendon who wanted to plant those damned geraniums along all the runways in England."

"It would have been very pretty."

The attempt at levity fell flat, and snorting, Hogan looked over at the window as the wind violently shook it. "I want Flagg's guts for garters, but the best I can hope for is reassignment--preferably in an infantry division on the front line."

"Why can't you bust Flagg? You are his commanding officer."

"Better connections in Washington."

Miri made a disgusted noise. "A season of penance won't change him, Robin, and you know that."

"I know. That's why I'm so frustrated. And I can't hope that the Chinese or the North Koreans will get lucky and shoot him."

"That's right. He _IS_ the wind." She'd met Flagg once at a cocktail party in Seoul. "He reminds me of the Sandhurst-trained officers who still thought of spying as a romantic lark. Because of their arrogant stupidity and inattention to reality, they tended to get other people killed, never themselves."

Unable to stop herself, she yawned again and looked at the clock. "If you close your eyes now, my Robin, you might get 3 good hours of sleep."

He kissed her tenderly as she settled against her own pillow. She pulled him to her and cradled his head between her breasts. It took him a moment to relax, but with her heart beating in his ear, with her gently stroking his back, he slowly drifted off. "Like son, like father," she mused and kissed the top of his head and held him tightly.

HH HH HH

Two days later, Miriam Hogan, dressed in a tailored wine wool dress and black suede pumps, slammed the phone down hard and swore loudly. "Dammit."

Maggie Hogan Winslow looked up from the newspaper she'd been reading. "What's the matter?"

"Why in God's name does this always happen to me?" She stalked over to Maggie, Hogan's only sister--a tall, leggy brunette. "It's the Catholic Relief Society. Once a month, two of us go, with Father Tom Killrain, to the orphanage. We take medical supplies, nonperishable food, clothing, blankets, things like that. It's a day to get there, a day there, and a day to get back. But Harriet Donner has avoided her rotation twice now--to my cost!" Miri dropped onto the red velvet sofa in disgust. "Father Killrain wants to leave early tomorrow and will not take no for an answer."

Maggie took her sister-in-law's hands in her own. "Don't worry about it. Go to the orphanage. I'll deal with the tiny terrors."

Miri's mouth quirked in amusement. Maggie certainly shared Robin's sense of humor and even his flexibility. But those two children would tax even her ability to cope. Miri squeezed the hands holding hers. "First Robin and now, me. Here you come to visit, and we abandon you. I'm sorry, my dear."

"These things happen, Miriam. One just has to roll with the punches. And you did say it would only be 3 days, right?"

"That's all it's been in the past." She sighed. Patrick and his cousin Emily were only 4 months apart in age, but already, what one couldn't think of the other one could.

"Okay, then. Have a good time?"

"With the officious, ambitious Fr. Killrain? Thank you, I'd rather face a garden party at the British Embassy."

Maggie laughed at the face Miri made.


	2. Chapter 2

**Near the 38th Parallel: February 1952**

Miri huddled against the boxes of supplies in the back of the truck and wished she could have just one blanket. Fr. Killrain _had_ arranged for two trucks, but only one had been available. And with the two nuns bound for the orphanage, Miri and the single soldier for protection had been consigned to the exposed, frozen back. Wisely, she'd remembered her long underwear and fur-lined cloak, but it didn't change the Korean winter. The tiny Welshwoman observed their Army escort: as frozen as she, but attempting nonchalance like only a 19 year old could. He avoided eye contact with her, and Miri pulled her hood further over her braid-crowned head.

The truck struck pothole after pothole. Miri thought her spine was going to go through her skull. Hitting another hole slammed her painfully into the sharp corner of a box. Before the stars had cleared, she heard automatic rifle fire. The young soldier looked at the spreading red on his uniform in puzzlement. Miri dove for him, but his body rolled out, leaving her only his rifle. More shots peppered the road, and the truck began to careen wildly, preventing her from getting off a single shot. As the truck bounced to a halt, the former British agent growled to herself, "Welcome back to war, Miriam."

Keeping the vehicle between herself and the sniper, Miri cautiously made her way to the cab. Sister Marie-Cecile's bright blue eyes were huge under her starched shell of a wimple. Fr. Killrain slumped over the wheel. The Briton put a hand to his neck. A faint pulse. She looked at the two nuns. I think I just got command of this expedition, she thought even as she said, "Can either of you drive this lorry?" Sister Pauline nodded. "Good. You drive. Sister Marie-Cecile, take care of Fr. Killrain."

"He's been shot in the chest." The Belgian nun's voice was soft and calm.

Sister Pauline asked quietly, her accent betraying her as Irish, "Where are we going?"

"I hope we run into the US Army somewhere along this road." Covered in blood, the map was useless. Two shots ricocheted off the fender. "Don't just sit there, Sister, drive." Miri ran and jumped behind boxes. As Sister Pauline hit the gas, the laywoman squeezed off two rounds, vaguely in the direction of the sniper. She entertained no illusions of having hit him.

Fortunately, they weren't long on the road. Sister Pauline pulled into an army camp. Miri, cold and weary, with nerves stretched taut, realized it was a MASH unit. Thank God. As the engine quit with a sputter, two unshaven, disheveled figures, each with hands thrust into pockets appeared from a tent. Miri jumped down and slung the rifle over her shoulder. Her hood fell back, revealing her face and hair.

One of the men remarked facetiously, "What do we have here? Maid Marian?"

"Try again," Miri snapped, though she supposed that in her cloak, tight trews, and knee-high boots she did seem a bit medieval. "What we have here is wounded. Fr. Killrain's been shot."

That got their attention. As they bounded around the truck, the two nuns hauled the priest out of the cab. The two men grabbed Fr. Killrain. Marie-Cecile indicated the chest wound, saying, "He's lost a great deal of blood."

"Sounds like your case, Hawk."

"Get him into pre-op, BJ. Start him on plasma and get me a chest x-ray."

"Right." BJ Hunnicutt took off with the priest. It did not look good.

Hawkeye Pierce looked at the nun. "We'll do our best, Sister." He tried to be reassuring, but even without the x-ray, he hadn't liked what he'd seen. The surgeon motioned to a passing corporal. "Radar, go get Colonel Potter--after you take these 3 to the mess tent for something hot. And find Fr. Mulcahy."

"Gotcha."

After getting her coffee, Miri sat down at an empty table. Her face was white beneath the black Katrina braids. Holding the hot cup between numb hands, she closed her eyes and wished the day away. Wished she were back in Seoul with her sister-in-law and the children. She wanted to scoop up Patrick and hold his squirming body close.

A hand came down on her shoulder, breaking into her desires. "I'm Colonel Potter. Are you all right?"

"Yes, colonel. I was simply wishing myself elsewhere."

The white-haired CO sat down next to her. "We do that all the time. Please forgive me…."

"But who are we and what are we doing here?" she finished for him. "These are Sisters Pauline and Marie-Cecile. They're going to the orphanage." Miri ceased as several other people joined them. The nuns kept silent, leaving their lay companion to describe their experiences.

"Hello, I'm Father Mulcahy," said a youngish man with blond hair and a pleasant, open face. He nodded to the nuns who returned his smile.

"Miriam Siwân Hogan." She shook his hand. As Potter handed the rifle to Radar, Miri started again. "I'm a Catholic Relief Society volunteer. We were taking supplies, and the two sisters, to the orphanage when we came under sniper fire. Our army escort was killed immediately, and Father Killrain was badly wounded."

Before the priest had a chance to ask about his fellow cleric, Radar burst out, "Father Mulcahy, Hawkeye wants you in OR now."

"Oh, my," remarked Mulcahy who quickly downed his coffee and hurried after the young Iowan.

Obliviously, Major Frank Burns muttered, "Incompetent soldier." It took a few seconds for everyone to realize he was talking about the dead soldier. "Wasn't paying attention," he added with a nod of his chinless head.

Having gotten the measure of Burns, Miri savaged him. "And what makes you an expert, Major? Have you combat experience? Have you experience even being an officer?"

Potter turned away while the two nuns looked befuddled under their wimples.

Major Margaret "Hot Lips" Houlihan straightened up, fixed the British volunteer with her usual steely glare, and said haughtily, "I doubt seriously you're in any position to comment. You ARE a civilian."

"I spent six years in the Royal Army, retiring as a major. I was in London for the Blitz and the V-2 campaign." Miri gave Hot Lips an enigmatic smile, not that she could elaborate. Some things always remained a secret.

The chief nurse pushed it. "You weren't a line officer." Silence egged Houlihan on. "So you have no right to criticize Major Burns."

"I have every right, major. I at least knew how to be an officer." She stared at Burns with malicious eyes. "Besides, I never had to hide behind a man."

Potter took the opportunity to change the subject. "It was a different war, people. And a very different experience for the English."

Burns piped up, "Well, we won the war."

Potter glared at him, but Miri shot back. "And where were you in 1940? Cowering in your isolationism. I'm sure my first husband appreciated you before he died in the Battle of Britain." Even Major Houlihan quailed before the quiet steel in the Briton's voice.

Sister Marie-Cecile interrupted. "We've had a very strenuous and frightening day. We should find quarters and say Compline before we retire."

"Good idea, Sister," seconded Potter.

"I'd much rather have a Scotch," mumbled Miri.

HH HH HH

Pierce and Hunnicutt were fighting a losing battle in Killrain's chest when the choppers started landing. OR came to frenetic, loud life around them, but the priest's life quietly slipped away--despite all of Mulcahy's prayers. Pierce straightened up and stared over his mask at the camp chaplain. "I'm sorry, Father. There was just too much damage."

"I know you did your best, Hawkeye." Mulcahy hadn't missed the troubled, angry look in those grey-blue eyes. "Tom couldn't have been in better hands."

"Well, he is now. Next!" The corpsman removed the priest and brought in another of the seemingly endless line of casualties. This one was a moon-faced kid. "They're always such babies."

"Not always, Hawk. I've got one here--leg all torn up--who's 45 if he's a day." Hunnicutt was the 4077th's leg man, but it was a hollow joke by this point. He looked at the x-ray and whistled. "Do you believe this? Perforated by shrapnel from ankle to upper thigh and just a simple fracture of the right fibula and lots of torn muscle." A spurt of scarlet got his attention. "Take that back. Shrapnel nicked the femoral artery. Clamp!"

Margaret Houlihan stopped at the end of the table and gushed, "That's Brigadier General Robert E. Hogan."

"I read just recently about his arrival in Korea. Can't remember what. Sponge!" Potter worked furiously on a bowel resection. "I Corps' head intelligence officer. What is it with the damned Brits and their tea?"

"Oh, good, a real spook. Be careful, Beej, he might be booby trapped." Pierce dove for a bleeder as the gas passer counted down the falling blood pressure. "So how did we get so lucky to get him?"

"An anti-personnel mine ripped up the general's jeep, wounding the general and his driver. You're working on the driver, Pierce."

"I _was_ working on the driver, Margaret. He's dead." In a couple of swift, angry motions, Hawkeye ripped off his gloves. Houlihan was right there with another pair. "Give you a hand, Beej?"

"Yeah, thanks." A piece of junk clanked against the steel bowl. A sudden realization hit Hunnicutt, causing him to start chuckling,

Nurse Kelleye looked confused as Pierce glanced up from his work. "All right, Beej. What's so funny?"

Shaking his head, BJ answered, between chuckles, "The shrapnel stops right where his shorts began. Saved by the underwear."

"God love the army. It issues cast-iron skivvies to the generals. Pity it doesn't work for the privates."

"Well, in General Hogan's case, it did." More shrapnel in the bowl. "Thanks for the hand, Hawk."

"No problem. You sure he was wearing army issue undies?"

"Absolutely."

"I guess even generals don't get any slack on this issue."

"Well, who'd want to get caught in combat with cupids on his drawers? Or silk paisley? Can you imagine the ribbing at the O-Club?" contributed Potter.

"I'm surprised, Beej, that generals don't wear shorts with stars on them--in appropriate rank clusters. That way, each head can be saluted."

Houlihan admonished, "You two are awful. You can't talk that way about a superior officer."

Pierce dropped a big hunk of metal into the bloody pile. "Hey, the general ought to be thankful. Nothing vital to his wife got nailed."

"You're disgusting." The chief nurse stalked away.

"And you love me for it," he called out to her. He turned back to BJ. Devilment danced in his eyes. "She's so easy."

"But she's not cheap."

HH HH HH

Hot Lips stared down on Hogan's still form. She licked her lips and muttered, "He's so handsome, so virile."

"Margaret!" whined Frank Burns. "That's a brigadier general. And undoubtedly a war hero."

Her voice dropped to the sultry, as if in anticipation. "Yes, indeed. The very model of active command." Her body quivered slightly. "We'll have to present ourselves to him as soon as he comes to."

Burns pouted. "But, Margaret, darling…."

She whirled around to face him. Irritably, she said, "Oh, Frank, you have nothing to worry about. I'm just admiring from afar." Glancing back over her shoulder, she blew a little kiss to Hogan before being interrupted by a beefy British officer in an immaculate uniform, swagger stick stuck authoritatively under his left arm. Startled, she asked, "Who are you and how may I help you?"

"I am Air Commodore Sir Rodney Crittendon, and I was looking for the commanding officer, Sister."

"And just who are you calling 'Sister', buster?" she demanded hotly.

Crittendon hemmed and hawed a bit, pulling at his walrus mustache, before being rescued by a light baritone. "In England, nurses are referred to as sister. Furthermore," the voice took on a long suffering quality, "an air commodore is the equivalent of a brigadier general, so I suggest that you salute him and answer nicely."

Feigning sleep, Hogan had heard every word. Not only the two brown-nosers, one of whom had the hots for his stars, but Crittendon, too. Why couldn't that damned mine have just killed me, he thought miserably. He opened his eyes and took in his surroundings. And his leg. The bandages and the funny-looking, hinged cast made it nearly impossible for him to lift the limb. And trying only gave him pain to the hip. So much for flight. Taking a deep breath, he attempted to sit upright.

Crittendon found his voice. "Hogan, old man! What a pleasure to see you again." Hogan grimaced as the Englishman pumped his hand. Noticing the swathed leg, he cried, "Good Lord, what happened to you?"

"I died and went to Hell," the American muttered. The room spun, and his vision fogged.

"And just what in Sam Hill do you think you're doing, general?" Strong hands pushed him back against the pillow. "Lie there quietly, general, and you'll get better." Hogan struggled against the white-haired colonel. "Jiminy Cricket! You're worse than the Army mule." Seeing that resistance was futile, Hogan lay back. "That's better."

Crittendon cut in, querying, "Is he going to be all right, doctor?"

"If he minds his Ps and Qs, yes." Potter gave Hogan a stern admonishment. "General Hogan, you've just woken up from 4 hours of surgery. You took 3 pints of blood, and there are 350 stitches in that broken leg of yours. You might as well hold your horses because you're not going anywhere. Got that? Sir?"

The general pulled his chin in and studied the irate colonel. "Skip your coffee this morning, colonel? By the way, who are you?

"Colonel Sherman T. Potter, commanding officer of MASH 4077 and your doctor, General Hogan."

"Ah, sir, you're just the person I've been looking for. Air Commdore Sir Rodney Crittendon at your service, sir." He clicked his heels.

Potter saluted him. "What can I do for you, Air Commodore?"

"Many of your casualties recently have been British. I've come up to check on them. See how they're getting on, don't you know? And you, too, of course. See if there's anything we can do for you, wot?"

Just listening to that prattle made Hogan's head ache. He knew what it meant, too. Nobody at HQ could figure out what to do with him, so Crittendon got shipped off on some wild goose chase to keep him out of everybody's hair. Except mine, wailed Hogan mentally. And he _still _outranks me--by 3 days. Hogan watched in relief as the two men walked away from his bed. Closing his eyes, he hoped that he could just pass out.

HH HH HH

Feeling like a clumsy giant, BJ Hunnicutt sat down in the mess tent next to the little lady whom he'd briefly met last evening. If she were more than 5 feet tall, he'd eat his boots--which would undoubtedly be more palatable than this swill. He couldn't identify anything on the tray before him.

"I've never been in an army canteen that served anything but slops."

"You say that with the weariness of long experience. I know you're not Maid Marian, so who are you really?"

"Miriam Siwân Hogan. And you?"

"Captain BJ Hunnicutt, general surgeon. All around nice guy, too."

She looked up at him with serious eyes. "How is Father Killrain?"

Hunnicutt was silent a moment before saying, softly, "He died. The bullet hit a rib and shattered. Fragments went everywhere. There was too much damage, and with the blood loss we weren't able to make up, the good father died." He watched her cross herself. "What brought you up here with him?" He didn't miss the wedding set on her left hand. What does your husband think about this? BJ wondered.

"A general's wife has certain public duties to perform," she answered dryly. "In addition to supporting his career, being seen at the appropriate functions, etc, community service is highly desirable." She took a deep breath and put her fork down. "So I am a Catholic Relief Society volunteer, and one of our causes is Sister Teresa's orphanage."

BJ squirmed on the bench beside her, and her right eyebrow went up. "Mrs. Hogan, by any chance are you related to Brigadier General Hogan?"

"My husband. Why do you ask?"

"Ah, um," BJ stalled, trying to find some way of telling her this gently. Giving up, he opted for the truth. "Ma'am, an anti-personnel mine and his jeep had a fight, and the jeep lost. The general was wounded; his driver, killed."

Her face froze. She barely managed to squeak, "Is Robin badly hurt?"

BJ took her hands in his. "He's going to be all right. He's in post-op. Shrapnel tore up his right leg. The leg's broken, but if the wounds heal quickly and well, then in about 2 weeks, the hospital in Seoul will probably throw a walker on him and set him behind his desk."

"And if they don't heal nicely?'

"Then 6 to 8 weeks in the hospital. That's about how long it takes for a broken leg to heal. See, we can't put a regular cast on him because of the wounds."

"I want to see him."

HH HH HH

As they walked into post-op, Pierce sauntered up. "Hello, Marian. What can I do for you? You've already made _my_ day." He was frankly appreciative.

Miri sized Pierce up, commented in a thin voice, "I'm a little old for you, doctor." She had to be at least six years his senior. "Moreover, I'm married and the mother of a 4 year old son."

"So what's a nice lady like you doing in a place like this?" Pierce looked into her luminous eyes and felt himself melt.

Hunnicutt cut in, "Knock if off, Hawk."

"That's a damned good question, doctor," intruded Hogan's angry voice.

Miri took in the recumbent form and the heavily bandaged leg. She whispered, "My God, Robin." Hunnicutt swiftly sat her down on the stool beside the bed.

Torn between his desire to reassure his wife and his intention to wring her neck, Hogan made the best of a bad situation. With one hand, he reached out to her, gazing at her with a soft expression. "Calm down, my love. I'll be all right." She took his hand, and her physical jitters abated. After several moments of quiet handholding, Hogan spoke again, changing tacks, agitation and worry manifesting themselves. "Now, that that's over, will you please tell me what the hell you're doing here? And who's taking care of Patrick?"

"Maggie," she snapped. "I'm here against my will because Killrain needed a volunteer to make a run to the orphanage. Shot at, we ducked in here. The priest died for his efforts." Standing up abruptly, gracelessly knocking over the stool, she added, "I'll talk to you when you're less hostile, Robert." Rather stiffly, she made her way out of post-op.

Pierce looked down and said, "You know, General Hogan, you really are an ogre."

Hogan sank into his pillow, turning his head to one side. He muttered, "The last person you expect to see in a MASH unit 3 miles from the front is your wife." He moaned softly in exasperation.

Hunnicutt stood there and clasped his fingers on top of his head as Hawkeye brushed past him.

HH HH HH

Potter walked into his office and noticed immediately that his saddle was missing. "Radar!" he bellowed.

The diminutive corporal was right there beside him. "Mrs. Hogan came looking for you, saw the saddle, and asked if there were a horse, too. I told her about Sophie, and she asked if she could take her for a ride. Mrs. Hogan really looked like she could use some time with Sophie, sir, so I said you wouldn't mind."

"Radar, I agree the lady's been through a lot, but In her upset condition, she'll spook the mare. Furthermore, that saddle's too big for that little, bitty woman. I don't want to tell the general his wife's in the next bed in post-op because my mare threw her." The news that the little lady was the general's missus had traveled fast, and Potter had been in the army long enough to know better than to antagonize an injured and cranky general. Especially over his better half.

Potter strode for the door. Radar tried to keep up. "Oh, no, sir. She wasn't upset or anything. She just needed time alone. And Sophie'll understand."

As they entered the compound, Miri trotted past them. Potter watched her; despite the problem of the saddle, he saw a fine horsewoman, and said admiringly, "That woman's got a beautiful seat."

"Certainly Hawkeye thinks so, sir." Potter glared at Radar. "Well, he does!" The boy's voice had gone shrill.

"I'm talking about the way she rides." He looked at Radar, and the corporal echoed his words: "Go find Captain Pierce. I need to talk to him." Radar dashed off.

Potter turned his attention back to Miri who'd come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the compound. The throng of people was impossible to get through. Sophie whinnied unhappily at the milling and the noise, and Miri leaned over to pat the mare's neck. The colonel started forward, wondering what was going on when Radar reappeared. His corn-fed face was split with a wide grin. "Hawkeye's run Major Houlihan's lacy panties up the flagpole." The CO closed his eyes. "And they say, 'Love you always, Snuggle Bunny'. He means Major Burns."

"Of course, he does," said Potter, his tone clipped. He looked up at the rider. "Mrs. Hogan, Hawkeye Pierce is a fine doctor, but he is sometimes given to childish pranks."

"But the majors ask for it," added Radar.

"I understand." Miri said as she dismounted. "Come on, Sophie. It's too cold for you to be standing about." She started to lead the mare away, but stopped and turned back to Potter. "Thank you very much for the loan of your horse, colonel. She's a fine animal."

"She had a fine rider this morning." He didn't miss that rider's glow. "You don't get to do this often, do you?"

"No, colonel, I don't. I used to be the mistress of hounds for my local hunt back in Shropshire." He whistled in amazement. "Unfortunately, Robin loathes horses and doesn't really care for me to ride. He's terrified I'll break my blinkin' neck." She heaved a mournful sigh. "But this morning, I really needed to take a good gallop."

"Things really have piled up on you, haven't they, Mrs. Hogan?"

"Worst of all, I just found out the King has died." She walked Sophie to her paddock, leaving Potter and Radar silent behind her.

HH HH HH

Father Mulcahy drifted through post-op, genially checking up on his temporary flock. Nobody seemed to need him this afternoon. No crises was a good thing, but hidden spiritual distress was not. The priest stopped in front of General Hogan's bed. Having heard about the scene with his wife from an irate Hawkeye, Mulcahy wondered if the officer wanted to talk. But how best to approach him? He seemed rather prickly. The priest smiled warmly and leaned toward the general, who had his nose stuck in a dog-eared mystery that Mulcahy had seen floating around camp. "Hello, general, I'm Father Mulcahy, the chaplain." Dark, suffering eyes looked up at him. "If you're in pain, sir, perhaps I should summon a nurse?"

Hogan laughed softly. "You're quick, Father. Yes, my leg hurts. However, it is nothing compared to my frustration at being stuck flat on my back in a hospital." "Sir, you've been seriously wounded. You should relax and rest. Frustration doesn't help you recover."

"Nor does waking up in an insane asylum, Father." The general continued, "I woke up to two officers practically salivating over my stars and then the biggest, most bumbling idiot the Royal Air Force has ever turned out walked in. Within an hour, I was treated to the unexpected and wholly unwelcome presence of my wife, who should be safely in Seoul. Then one of the surgeons made an incredible pass at her right under my nose. This same idiot had the nerve to tell me I have been an ogre to her. And that's only half of it. The rest is not open for discussion." He stopped, out of breath from his litany of troubles.

Mulcahy felt overwhelmed, but didn't show it. Soothingly, "General Hogan, I will see what I can do to relieve some of your problems. At least I can speak to Colonel Potter about Captain Pierce and Air Commodore Crittendon."

Before Hogan could respond, Klinger, in an aquamarine chiffon tea gown, his latest acquisition from the Spiegel catalogue, interrupted. "Father Mulcahy, you'd better get up to the orphanage."

Straightening, the chaplain grasped his pectoral cross, asking, "What's wrong?"

"Colonel Flagg's up there interrogating the kids. What a looney tune."

"A man more in need of a Section 8 than you, soldier," commented Hogan. "By the way, as nice as the dress is, it won't get you out of the army. One of my uncles tried it back in 1917, and it got him nowhere but Flanders."

"Thanks a lot, general, you're all heart."

"I had one guy in my outfit in World War II who donned a dress regularly. Hell, even I've worn a dress. _And_ had my garters snap. It's really hard to conduct a war with your stockings down around your ankles."

Mulcahy watched Klinger crumple. "I don't want to be a general."

"Then get out of your dress."

"Father," Hogan called. The priest looked back to him. "Would you find my wife and tell her I'd like to see her."

"Certainly, sir."

HH HH HH

The truck rolled up to the battered orphanage. Fr. Mulcahy escorted Sisters Pauline and Marie-Cecile to Sister Teresa, the superior and administrator of the orphanage. Miri jumped down from her position in the back; she'd been riding shotgun. She slung the rifle over her shoulder. Returned to duty unofficially, Miri wondered, How could I resist you, Robin? Is there any thing I won't do for you? There probably is, but I'm damned if I can think of it. She sighed sharply, feeling herself an inmate in an absurdist play.

A harsh, male voice confirmed it. "Who the hell are you? Some refugee from a Hollywood horror film?"

It took everything Miri had not to burst out laughing. Sam Flagg in the flesh! This was going to be easier than she thought. Completely uninspired, the man had less imagination than Wolfgang Hochstetter, she noted mercilessly. She didn't even bother looking at him; rather, she reached into the back of the truck for boxes. "Don't just stand there, Flagg, help me get the supplies into the orphanage. By the way, who writes your dialogue?"

"I asked you a question, lady. And I don't take orders from women."

"Indeed." She pushed her hood back as she faced him. "I'm Mrs. Robert E. Hogan."

"And I'm Bess Truman. Shall we cut the crap?" he asked stiffly. "Who the hell are you? And don't lie to me. I can smell a lie from 50 feet."

He stalked over to her, leaned against the truck within in a foot of Miri.

Mulcahy appeared. Miri tugged on a box clearly too big for her, knowing the priest would force Flagg to proper work. "Mrs. Hogan, will you please let me do that." Mulcahy motioned to Flagg. "Well, colonel, you could help, too." Under the priest's gaze, Flagg give in with ill-concealed bad temper. Miri watched with amusement as Flagg started carrying in supplies. After a few moments, she left to talk to Sister Teresa.

By late afternoon, after spending all day at the orphanage, Mulcahy and Miri were ready to depart for the 4077th.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hogan, for bringing us the supplies. Your courage is truly remarkable."

"Thank you, Sister, but I was merely doing my duty." Miri flushed in embarrassment.

"I still want to know who the hell you are."

The Briton winced and wished she could shoot Flagg, putting him out of everybody's misery. Most especially Robin's. "I've told you, darling. I'm sorry you don't believe me. Actually," she turned to face him, "why don't you tell me why you don't?" This would be good and completely irrational.

"Brigadier General Hogan is not married. So try it again."

A twitch of the mouth. "Oh, really? Well, that's a fine news flash after 7 years." Miri found it increasingly difficult to keep any semblance of a straight face. "Very well, if I am not my husband's wife, who am I?"

"You're a Chinese plant surgically altered to pass as a British agent, Chun Yu."

"Does that mean I'm a petunia?"

Mulcahy's pale blue eyes rolled heaven-ward in supplication. Sister Teresa snapped, "Colonel Flagg, you've been here three days interrogating my orphans. You've only succeeded in terrorizing the children."

"They're not children, Sister, they're Chinese midget partisans masquerading as orphans."

Sister Teresa threw her pencil up in the air as she sat down in utter disbelief.

Miri hugged herself as she leaned against the wall. Tears silently streamed down her face. "Without doubt, you're the best comedy act I've ever seen," she gasped. "Have you thought about headlining the Palladium?" She dissolved in laughter.

Flagg glowered. "You'll regret this, Chun Yu."

"Somehow, I doubt that, Flagg, but do I think a visit to the 4077th would do you good." Miri slid to the floor in helpless mirth.

HH HH HH

Frank Burns came into post-op, surveyed the quiet patients, and tapped Hunnicutt on the shoulder. "I'll take over now. Anything I should know?"

You mean, like medicine? Patient care? Compassion? thought BJ. The young surgeon cast a quick glance down to a clearly unhappy Hogan, trapped by Crittendon. "Yeah, see what you can do to separate Air Commodore Crittendon from General Hogan. The general needs his rest. And make sure he gets his morphine and penicillin."

"Well, he's entitled to the finest care available, Hunnicutt."

"So are they all, Frank." Pity, BJ though, I won't be here when you cross the general, who's in pain and on a short fuse. He left post-op shaking his head.

HH HH HH

Sitting down at the desk, Burns reached down and opened the right-hand drawer. Without looking, he sought his puzzle magazine. Something scaly and alive greeted him instead. It hissed and struck at him. Burns jumped straight up from the desk and screamed, several times, "Snake!!!" He attracted the attention of every nurse and patient in post-op.

Crittendon, who'd been reliving his war experiences, got up from Hogan's bedside take charge of the situation. Burns, held tightly by Hot Lips, sulked in a corner while almost everybody else was laughing. Taking one look at Burns, Crittendon exuded disapproval, ordering sternly, "Pull yourself together, man." The mustache bristled.

"There's a live snake in the desk drawer, sir," Burns sniveled.

Inspecting the drawer, Crittendon pulled out a small garter snake about 8 inches in length. It wriggled in his hand. The English officer stuck the offending reptile under the doctor's nose. Frank cowered in Houlihan's arms. "Oh, be a man," boomed Crittendon. "Really, all this fuss over a tiny reptile? I faced much worse with nary a sound at the hands of the Gerrys."

"It's that juvenile delinquent Pierce!" insisted Houlihan hotly.

"I don't care who it is, madam. It's not an excuse for cowardice." Crittendon threw out his chest, tucked his swagger stick tightly under his arm and strode purposefully from post-op, gently carrying the animal in the palm of his hand.

HH HH HH

Hogan shook his head slightly, for once appreciating Crittendon. He closed his eyes in tired amusement, almost falling asleep. Without warning, gentle hands began messaging the tight muscles of his neck and shoulders. Slowly opening his eyes, he gazed into his wife's pale face. "Miri?" he whispered, as her fingers probed a particularly tight knot.

"Mission accomplished." With her hands on his shoulders, she leaned closer. He met her half-way, their lips lingering in an intensely loving kiss.

A strident voice broke in. "Really, madam, you cannot disturb the patients. They need their rest." She gave Hogan an ingratiating smile. "I'm sorry for the intrusion, general." Hot Lips attempted to take Miri by the elbow. Hogan closed his eyes, squirmed uncomfortably, and waited for the inevitable explosion.

"My dear Major Houlihan," Miri's voice never rose above a whisper, "clearly you haven't heard: I am his wife. And I will kiss my husband whenever I blinkin' well feel like it. Now, hop it, before I've a mind to see you on the mat."

Hot Lips took an involuntary step backwards as Miri walked by her, out of post-op.

HH HH HH

Potter and Pierce entered the O-Club in full argument. "Colonel, I'm not responsible for either Margaret's panties or Frank's snake! Somebody is out to get me!"

"Hawkeye, it's your MO and your two favorite targets. Just knock it off." Pierce ran a hand through his hair, and Potter softened. "Look, son, this one star pain in the patoot has got enough of a burr under his saddle to end your career."

Pierce growled softly as he and the colonel bellied up to the bar. One look at the barkeep caused explosive laughter. "Who does your make-up, Flagg?"

"What are you supposed to be?" Potter shook his head. He'd never met a man more in need of a hand grenade enema in his life. "Or have you finally pickled your liver?"

Flagg endured them sullenly. "I'm here to observe those two. So I'm a Korean bartender."

"Oh, you're very convincing, Flagg. Every Korean boy would like to grow up to be 6 feet tall with perfect teeth and round eyes."

HH HH HH

Miri and Air Commodore Crittendon were not so quietly waking the King. Their voices--hers a pure soprano, his a croaky bass--wafted over the O-Club. "'There always be an England,'" they sang, "'if England means as much to you as England means to me.'" She banged on the piano with a dramatic flourish.

"Well done, old girl," Crittendon enthused. He took a gulp of his beer and looked down on her. Slightly embarrassed now by it, he remembered he used to have feelings for Miriam Broadbent; she, of course, had none for him or anyone else. Nor would she ever, it had seemed. So when he'd heard she had married Robert Hogan, he'd been shocked and more than a little wounded. Crittendon had mused then, a trifle bitterly, that, damn him, Hogan always had got the girl. His resentment was now long dead. He just wished she wouldn't bore him silly by nattering on about her son. "What next?"

"How about 'Land of Hope and Glory'?"

"Smashing," he agreed as she downed her whiskey soda before launching into Elgar's marching sentimentality. "'Land of hope and glory/Mother of the free/How shall we extol thee/Who are born of thee?/Wider still and wider/Shall thy bounds be set?/God who made thee mighty/Make thee mightier yet!/God who made thee mighty/Make thee mightier yet!'"

HH HH HH

Potter watched Flagg scruntize the pair at the piano. "What do you want with those two?" He eyed the CIA operative warily, for he didn't like the idea of him hounding Mrs. Hogan. She'd had enough to deal with without this screwball.

"She's a Chinese spy, and he's her British contact--a double agent."

Pierce nearly fell off his barstool. Potter choked on his Scotch. Coughing, he spluttered, "That popinjay? He couldn't find his butt with a ten-man workin' party." He paused a moment, recalling all the idiotic conversations with Crittendon in the past two days. "Not that you could either, Flagg." Potter shook his head; this wacko would've made Freud's career.

"They're dangerous enemy agents!"

"Horse hockey! You're delusional, Flagg." The colonel finished his drink and got off his stool. "Let me give you this piece of advice: your CO's in post-op, and I suggest you leave his wife alone." With sudden afterthought, he looked meaningfully at Pierce. "That goes for you, too, Hawkeye." He surveyed them both. "You're in no position to tangle with a brigadier general."

"Yes, colonel," muttered Pierce to Potter's retreating back. He looked over at Flagg and pushed his empty glass toward him. "Hit me again, Sam."

As he poured the drink, Flagg asked quietly, "General Hogan's really here? I wonder what brought him out?"

Hawkeye registered the nervous undertone. "He's probably looking for you."

HH HH HH

Margaret Houlihan snuggled more deeply under her blankets. Smiling in her sleep, she dreamt of her most recent leave in Tokyo. She rolled over--onto something wet and slimy. Her eyes popped open to stare into the dead and glassy ones of a large carp. With bedcovers flying in every direction, she exploded from her bed, screaming, "Pierce, you juvenile pervert! You moron!" She bolted from her tent into the cold night, only to run into the alleged miscreant.

"Where's the fire, Margaret?" He tried directing her back to her tent, but she would have none of it.

She pounded his chest ineffectually with her fists. "You jerk! You heartless beast! You put a dead fish in my bed! Maniac!"

Smirking, Hawkeye grabbed her wrists. "Margaret, listen to me. I'm not doing this. I'm not playing these pranks. Somebody is using you to get at me!"

She gave him a dirty look. "Who'd want to do that?" she asked suspiciously.

"I don't know, Margaret, but if I get my hands on him, I'll wrap your dead fish around his throat."

HH HH HH

After a long night in post-op, Pierce stumbled into the mess tent for his breakfast. He sat down next to BJ. Potter looked over at him with some concern. "Rough night, son?"

"Yeah, colonel. We lost Private Nelson, the one with an unasked for frontal lobotomy. And Anderson, the kid with the nephrectonomy, is going sour. I'm not sure he's stable enough to transfer to the 123rd Evac." Hawkeye yawned. "And then there's General Hogan. It was a struggle to get him to take his medication. Glared at me the entire time. He actually unnerved me."

BJ piped up. "He's always as good as gold for me, Hawk. Of course, he won't have Frank touch him at all."

Pierce cocked his head to one side. "Well then, he's not your typical stupid general. I wouldn't want Frank touching me, either. But why does he have to give me such hateful looks?"

"What have you done to him lately? Besides stick him with needles?"

Potter listened to the conversation with half an ear while reading the latest STARS & STRIPES. Father Mulcahy sat down at the table with only a murmured greeting. Suddenly the mess tent's usual chatter changed to dead silence before erupting into uproarious laughter. Potter put his paper down, and BJ and Hawkeye started falling over each other in hysterical merriment. Mulcahy's forehead rested in his hand. The enlisted men were hooting and stomping their feet. Potter followed Radar's stupefied glance.

In the door to the mess tent stood Frank Burns, his fatigue shirt transformed into a bowling shirt. In an arc above the breast pocket was Ferret Face--in permanent black ink. There were more guffaws behind him. "Colonel," he whined piteously.

"What is it, Burns? What happened to your shirt?" Sounding like a tired and abused parent, Potter almost dreaded to see the back.

"Hawkeye did this!"

He turned around. Crudely drawn on the back were bowling pins over and under which was written--Sky Pilots of Fort Wayne. BJ collapsed nose first on the table while Mulcahy covered his face with both hands in what appeared to be desperate prayer.

While holding his aching sides, Hawkeye managed to choke out, "Sorry, Frank, not guilty. It's great, I wish I'd thought of it, but I didn't."

"Colonel!" Burns stomped his foot in a temper tantrum. "I want you do something about this creep and his cheap pranks."

"Frank," Hawkeye replied more seriously, "I'm not the one doing this. I'm the target. Of whom I don't know."

"Oh, come off it, Pierce. Nobody around here would do anything like that to you. Everybody around here likes you," he whimpered childishly.

"Oh, yeah, what about you and Margaret?"

"Well, she wouldn't stoop so low, and I don't have the brains."

"I'll buy that, Frank," chimed BJ as Hawkeye fell over again.

"Enough!" yelled Potter. "Whether it's Pierce or not, somebody is turning this camp upside down. And I won't have it. In my office, people, in 30 minutes." He turned to Radar, who mumbled with him, "Make sure Major Houlihan is there."

HH HH HH

Surreptitiously, Colonel Sam Flagg entered the VIP tent. That mustachioed Limey had left not ten minutes earlier, so he'd have no interruptions. The capture of a highly placed double agent would undoubtedly impress the right people in Washington. The only problem was his immediate CO. Brigadier General Hogan hadn't seemed particularly gung-ho when he'd met him 3 months ago, but a little research into the general's history--more than a quick peek into his personnel file--had revealed quite a lot: West Point, early pilot training, bomber command during WWII, 2 1/2 years a POW, intelligence officer in the army of occupation, 2 years at the War Department in intelligence. Deep down not only was Flagg suspicious--the general was too good to be true--he was jealous. But exposing that snooty female who claimed to be Mrs. Hogan would take the general down a couple of pegs, Flagg judged, _and _get him out of Korea and to Washington.

He began pulling apart Crittendon's personal belongings. Clothing he scattered in every direction. Nothing. Flagg then turned to the briefcase. It was locked. A-ha, the American thought. With a knife, he forced the lock and started ransacking the contents. The official papers, mostly quartermaster reports, he ignored. Any seemingly personal letters would be more revealing in Flagg's estimation. One, on thin airmail paper, almost slipped out of his grasp. Without reading it terribly carefully, Flagg stuffed it into his breast pocket. Pulling the briefcase open wide, he inspected it for anything else. With his head stuck in the bag, he failed to notice Crittendon come in behind him.

"Well, I never!" The walrus mustache, shot with grey, bristled in righteous indignation. "Pray tell me, what do you think you're doing?" As Flagg dropped the briefcase and made for the door, Crittendon grabbed him by the upper arm, forestalling his flight. "Come with me, you blackguard. We'll see what Colonel Potter has to say about this wretched nonsense!" Outweighing Flagg by at least 40 pounds, Crittendon dragged his captive towards Potter's office.

At the sight of Miriam Hogan crossing the compound, Flagg yelled, "That's Chun Yu of the People's Republic of China!"

Miri stopped momentarily to take in the sight and then followed the spectacle.

HH HH HH

Potter looked up, expecting to see his senior staff. Instead entered an indignant Crittendon with a struggling Flagg. Mrs. Hogan waltzed in half a moment later. The CO stood up. "What the hell is going on?"

"I would like that very question answered, sir. This cad entered my quarters, ransacked my clothes and personal papers, apparently thinking I'm some sort of secret agent. I wish to lodge a formal protest. It's a diplomatic incident." Crittendon hadn't let go of Flagg's arm.

"Let him go, Air Commodore. I am sure we can sort this out," Potter tried to sooth.

"It's all her fault." Flagg whirled on an unsuspecting Miri whose eyes opened wide.

She began to snicker. "Whatever has makes your little heart happy, Flagg. Not that any of it's true."

"You're a Chinese agent, and I'll have your head." Before anyone could stop him, Flagg pulled his .45, put a round in the chamber, and aimed it directly at her. "You're under arrest, Chun Yu. If you so much as twitch, I'll shoot you where you stand."

Quietly, seemingly unperturbed, she replied, "You frighten me."

HH HH HH

When the three-ring circus had entered Potter's office, Radar'd headed out to get some help. He walked right into BJ. "Oh, man, am I glad to see you. Colonel Flagg's in the colonel's office with the English officer and Mrs. Hogan. They're all shouting at each other. Colonel Flagg's threatened to shoot Mrs. Hogan." Radar trembled.

BJ rolled his eyes. "I think we need the general to put an end to this nonsense. Come on." Radar trotted in his wake to post-op.

Robert Hogan didn't enjoy being hauled into a wheelchair and bundled up against the cold. But he liked what Hunnicutt and Radar told tell him even less. It did, however, present him with certain, unlooked for possibilities. It meant he could keep Sidney Freeman's psychological profile of Flagg for another time. He turned to Radar, who said to him, "I'll get you London. What number?"

Without batting an eyelash, Hogan replied, "Whitehall 2525. James Roberts. Now scoot!" Radar dashed off as Hunnicutt pushed him along. "I'm going to kill Flagg."

"I'll go along with that. Any particular way you want to do him in?"

Radar handed Hogan the phone as soon as BJ maneuvered the unwieldy chair through the door. "Robbie? Hogan here. I need a favor. What, you ask? Rodney Crittendon's going to be filing a formal protest. A diplomatic incident. One of my overzealous underlings rifled his briefcase. I want you to back him. All the way to Prime Minister Churchill. It'll give me the opportunity to unload this operative. At least for six months." Hogan paused a moment, watching Radar listen to what was going on in Potter's office with a stethoscope. Putting a hand over the phone, he asked, "What's happening?"

"Colonel Potter's trying to calm everybody down, but it's not working. Flagg won't put down the gun. The English officer's threatening to use killer judo on him. Whatever that is."

"Great," shuddered Hogan, recalling Crittendon's ineffectual martial arts. Robbie's demanding voice brought him back to the present. "I got that, Robbie. Thanks a lot. Yes, I know. I owe you. But when are you ever going to be able to collect?" He laughed. "Goodbye to you, too. Give my love to Judith and Penny." As he hung up the phone, a single shot rang out. It transfixed them all.

HH HH HH

Crittendon had more than threatened. With a speed and agility not thought possible, the Englishman brought down the side of his hand on Flagg's wrist. The fingers released the pistol. "My God!" the air commodore exclaimed, blue eyes wide in wonder, "it ruddy well worked." Dancing in front of Flagg, Crittendon accidentally kicked the pistol over to Miri.

She seized the weapon, and using both hands, she squeezed off a shot into the wall over Potter's head. Everybody turned to face her. She aimed the .45 at Flagg.

"I haven't killed anyone since December 1944. Shall you be the first?"

Rolling in unannounced, Hogan asked pleasantly, "What have you got to say for yourself, Flagg?" When Crittendon opened his mouth to protest, Hogan held up his hand. "Put it in writing, Rodney. Give me a copy and send a copy to Whitehall. Flagg, I asked you a question." The general's voice was very smooth. "Cat got your tongue? Well, you can explain to me down in Seoul. After a couple of weeks in the stockade." He motioned to the two MPs standing behind him. They started to haul a dumfounded Flagg away. Hogan stopped them. "Whatever you took from Air Commodore Crittendon, I'd like."

Flagg seemed to balk. Miri's silky voice prodded him. "Shall I convince you?" The .45 was leveled at his chest.

"Give me the gun, Miri." He just held out his hand. She hesitated a moment. "Now, Miriam." His tone allowed no room for disagreement. Without a sound, she handed it to him. He looked meaningfully at Flagg. "Your turn." Unwillingly, Flagg handed over the letter. The MPs dragged him out of the room.

Hogan took a quick look at it before extravagantly handing it back to Crittendon. "Here's the letter to your mother, Rodney."

"Colonel Potter, it's been a rare pleasure, but I must be toddling along now. I'll mention all your splendid work in my report to HQ." After returning Potter's salute, Crittendon turned to Hogan. "I'll have that complaint on your desk, Robert, as soon as possible."

Hogan smiled sweetly. "No rush, Rodney. I won't get to it before I get out of the hospital." He regretted ever using Crittendon's given name.

Miri put her hands to her husband's wheelchair. "You belong in bed."

"Just a moment, Mrs. Hogan." Potter held up his hand. "I'd like the general to explain why he's turned this camp upside down playing pranks on my officers." The senior staff of the 4077th quietly entered their CO's office.

Hogan gave Potter an innocent gaze.

With two giant strides, Hawkweye got in front of Hogan, demanding, "So, it was you pulling those little stunts?" Pierce's tone was angry and disrespectful. "Of course, what's a general for?"

"Keep a civil tongue in your head, captain," snapped Hogan, suddenly too tired for games. "I'm in no mood for your antics."

"Yeah, well, I'm in no mood to be the butt of your little jokes, general."

Hogan glared up at Pierce. "Where the hell do you get off making a grandiose pass at my wife under my nose? She was clearly upset that I'd been injured. That was about as unkind and unprofessional an act as I've seen in a long time. Just how do you explain _that_, captain?"

Pierce wilted under the intense scrutiny. "I don't, sir," he responded meekly.

"But what about us?" whined Burns. "What did we ever do to you?"

Derisively, Hogan answered, "You're an incompetent and an apple polisher." Sweeping Burns with a contemptuous glance before focusing on Hot Lips, he added, "And as for you, Major Houlihan, it's about time you learned that not all generals are Binkie Hamilton." Hot Lips flushed all the way to the roots of her hair. "I am not receptive to passes, but especially not when I'm a captive audience." Houlihan had snapped to attention under his withering commentary. Hogan turned back to Potter. "Does that cover it for you, colonel?"

Potter merely nodded.

HH HH HH

Nurse Abel tapped Hunnicutt on the shoulder. Glancing up, he followed her outstretched arm. He couldn't quite make out what she was pointing to--General Hogan appeared peacefully asleep. Lord knows he needs it, thought BJ; the man's been through a ringer. At Abel's insistence, he got up to make a closer inspection. He turned to Abel, saying, "Let me find a screen."

"You're not going to throw her out?"

"Why? It's the soundest the general's slept since he got here," he replied quietly. "And she looks pretty beat to me."

"You're the doctor," Abel remarked.

"What's the matter, Abel? You think marrieds can't be romantic?" He shook his head ruefully as started for supply.

As he was coming back, he met Colonel Potter, who asked, "Who's that for, as if I couldn't guess? What's that one-star menace to sanity up to now?"

BJ didn't like the irritation in his CO's voice. "He's out cold, sir, and so's his wife. I thought they'd like a little privacy."

"They're not?"

"They are." BJ watched his CO close his eyes in disbelief.

"What next?" Potter snapped.

"Lay off, colonel." Taking umbrage against Potter, BJ defended Hogan. "In the entire time he's been here, has anybody paid any attention to the general's feelings? I mean as a man and a husband?"

Potter's face took on a shrewd, almost bird-dog expression. "Sounds like you have. Is that why you were his stooge?"

"I prefer partner-in-crime, and yes, frankly, it was. Look," he set the screen down, "he's a devoted husband. Here's his tiny wife, the mother of his only child, 3 miles from the front, shot at, chased, accused, and threatened. All he wanted to do was take care of her, protect her, and with his injury, he couldn't really do a thing about it. His frustration and anger had to have an outlet. So cut the man some slack, will ya?"

Chastised, Potter picked up an end of the screen. "Let me give you a hand, son."

They set up the screen around the general's bed. His good leg was raised with his foot behind his wife's knees. Her head, cheek down, lay on his chest, her unbound black hair spilling over them. His arms encircled her back and shoulders, holding her to him.

As he and the colonel retreated, with BJ remarked softly, "They're a pair."

"To beat a full house."


	3. Chapter 3

**Seoul****, August 1952**

Questioning his own sanity, Hogan shook his head in wonderment for at least the twentieth time. Why, in God's name, had he ever allowed her out of the house in _that _dress? Miri'd explained that a traditional Hong Kong cheong-sam was form-fitting. The full-length, emerald green silk gown emphasized bosom and hip, leaving nothing to the imagination. The high mandarin collar, the only concession to modesty, was more than off-set by the knee-high slits in the sides. Looking at her, he sighed in frustration. He didn't want to go out at all. Other, more entertaining ideas danced in his head. But it was a stand up and smile affair, and duty called.

The ballroom in Seoul's swankest hotel buzzed with people. This year's charity auction for the Catholic Relief Society promised to be the biggest bash of the year. Hogan surveyed the room, crowed with tables and well-dressed people. Miri had done a brilliant, if ruthlessly efficient, job of organizing the event. It would certainly turn Marie Hamilton green with envy. "Turn her into an even more spiteful cat, too," muttered Hogan as he limped over to the bar, his hawthorn cane clamped firmly to his left side.

He took a sip of his martini, then heard a familiar voice. "General Hogan, I didn't expect to see you here." Father Mulcahy of the 4077th greeted him warmly.

"Oh, yes, my wife was this year's organizer. So I have to be here. What brings you here?" He thought a moment then added, "Sister Teresa's orphanage."

Mulcahy looked a bit sheepish. "Well, actually, Colonel Potter and I are here by special invitation. Though normally, I would be here on account of the orphanage."

"Special invitation?"

"That's right, general," Potter entered the conversation. "Fortunately, it coincided with a medical conference here in Seoul."

"Oh," responded Hogan, not exactly eager to renew his acquaintance with the 4077th's CO. The general shifted uncomfortably, obviously in pain.

Potter conspicuously noticed the cane. "I thought we fixed you up, general."

"You did. Captain Hunnicutt did a bang up job, too. I was out of the hospital in 2 weeks and out of my cast in 6 more." He took a deep breath. There was no point in evading the colonel's unspoken question. "I severely sprained my right ankle about two weeks ago."

"How'd you manage that?"

"Chasing a 4 1/2 year boy with a mind of his own."

Patrick could make Hogan feel like he was 100 on any given day. Where did that kid get the energy? And tripping over that damned tree root in the park and then being hauled to the hospital by two passing Marines had been ignominious to say the least. Trying not to frighten Patrick had made everything worse.

Potter chuckled sympathetically while Mulcahy said, "Excuse me, general, colonel, but I have to go fulfill my function as auctioneer. Do you have the auction list?"

Patting his breast pocket, Potter replied, "Absolutely, padre."

"Somehow I missed mine. What's up for bid?" The colonel passed him his copy. "I'm going to kill her," Hogan threatened ominously. 3 songs, sung on the spot by his wife, were up for auction.

"Robert, old man, pleasure to see you as always."

Hogan and Potter cringed simultaneously as Crittendon sailed up to them. Having to salute the air commodore galled Hogan enormously.

"Ah, Colonel Potter, fancy meeting you again, wot?" Another sharp salute accompanied by a small sigh of resignation.

"What are you doing here, Rodney?" Would this idiot ever go home? Hogan cried silently.

"I wouldn't've missed this bash for the world. When the old girl throws a party, she really does it up in style." Crittendon rubbed his hands in glee.

Suddenly, it all clicked for Hogan. When I get you home tonight, my darling girl, you're going to have some serious explaining to do.

The auction went quite quickly. Most of the stuff, all donated, wasn't particularly interesting and went rapidly for modest sums. The two jade brooches did generate a small bidding war, and the painting, in the primitive style, of a mare, went to General Hamilton for a solid $75.

Hogan whispered to Potter, "My wife tap you for that, colonel?"

"I couldn't refuse her."

Father Mulcahy announced the three songs. "These open at $50. Any takers?" Hogan raised his hand. "50. Do I hear 60?" Potter raised his hand. Hogan wondered, what the hell? "60. Do I hear 70?" Crittendon raised his hand.

Oh, this was too much, cursed the general who called out, "100."

Mulcahy blinked. "100 it is. Do I hear anything else?"

"110," from Potter.

Crittendon went up. "125."

Hogan's eyes narrowed to angry slits. "150, Father."

The orphanage was going to do quite well. The money from the songs was specifically earmarked, at the donor's request, for Sister Teresa. "150. Do I hear anything else?"

Potter bowed out. Crittendon upped the ante. "175."

Hogan decided to put a cap on it. "200." He watched in anger as Miri sidled up to him. He answered the question on her lips. "Buying your silence."

Out of the corner of his eye, Hogan watched Crittendon's reaction to her: his eyes popped out, his face turned red, he turned away quickly. Potter stared resolutely at his Scotch.

"200. Do I hear anything else," Mulcahy called nervously.

"225," Crittendon responded. The air commodore leaned over to Hogan and whispered, "You do realize, old man, we're bidding pounds, not dollars?"

A rapid calculation--that was about $1000--made Hogan understand he'd lost. He couldn't afford that much. With eyebrow raised, he gave the Englishman a slow, burning glare. "It's all yours, Rodney."

"225. Going once, going twice, gone. Sold to Air Commodore Crittendon for $225."

"225 pounds sterling, padre." The priest nearly fainted.

Crittendon counted out the cash. "Damn and blast," he muttered sharply.

"A little short, air commodore?" Potter queried quietly. "Here, allow me." He added $100 to the kitty. "That should cover it." Crittendon stammered his thanks. "Not at all. I want to hear the lady sing, too." Potter smiled at the glowering general.

Miri asked Crittendon, in a honeyed voice, "And what'll you hear first?"

Blushing furiously, he spluttered, ""Rose of England.'"

"You're such a patriotic soul, Rodney." She hummed the tune for a moment before belting, _a capella,_ "'Rose of England, thou shalt fade not here/Proud and bright, from rolling year to year/Red shall thy petals be as rich wine untold/Shed by thy warriors who served thee alone/Rose of England, breathing England's air/Flower of liberty beyond compare/While hand and heart endure to cherish thy prime/Thou shalt blossom to the end of time!"

Crittendon enthusiastically clapped, and she turned to Potter. "Your turn, colonel. Your choice."

He thought a moment. "'Lili Marlene.'"

She laughed. "You do go back. All the way to the Great War."

Hogan wondered which language she'd sing it in. "'Underneath the lantern, by the barrack gate/Darling I remember the way you used to wait/Twas there that you whispered tenderly/That you loved me, you'd always be/My Lili of the lamplight/My own Lili Marlene.'" The middle verses she sang in German. Then Miri switched back to English. "'Resting in our billet just behind the line/Even though we're parted, your lips are close to mine/You wait where that lantern softly gleams/Your sweet face seems to haunt my dreams/My Lili of the lamplight/My own Lili Marlene/My Lili of the lamplight/My own Lili Marlene.'"

Under the general's eyes, Potter shifted uncomfortably. You got more than you bargained for, didn't you, colonel? Hogan thought smugly. That feeling dissipated rapidly as she turned to him. "Rodney has graciously allowed you the final song, but made it my choice." She started snapping her fingers and began to sing "Always True to You in My Fashion". Hogan felt all the color drain from his face while he listened to her sultry voice, "But I'm always true to you/darlin', in my fashion./Yes, I'm always true to you,/darlin', in my way."

Vamping him, she finished up beside him, "'Mr. Harris, plutocrat/wants to give my cheek a pat./If a Harris pat means a Paris hat,/then Oo-la-la./Mais je suis toujours fidèle,/darlin' in my fashion./Oui, je suis toujours fidèle,/darlin', in my way!'" She winked at him over her shoulder.

Two can play this game, my love, he thought devilishly. He took her into his arms, dipped her, and kissed her passionately for what seemed forever. When he set her back on her feet, she was breathlessly taken aback. She panted and looked at him in surprise, and he nonchalantly crossed his arms over his chest. He asked, quite conversationally, "That's what you were demanding, wasn't it?" Her mouth opened and snapped shut.

HH HH HH

Three hours later, they waited for Hogan's driver to bring the car around. Although Hogan thought it pretentious to have a driver, right now, his ankle wouldn't permit him to drive, and there was no way on God's green earth, he was letting Miri behind the wheel. He'd ridden with her before, and his fingers had covered his eyes the entire time. Chuckling softly at the memory, Hogan slipped an arm around his wife's shoulders.

"What's so amusing?" she asked.

His words came from out of nowhere. "There are better ways, Miri, of asking me to retire from the army."

Her head abruptly swung upwards. "What are you talking about, Robin? I've asked you no such thing, nor would I ever." She quickly looked away, down the dark street.

He leaned over, kissed the top of her head. "Yes, you did. About 3 1/2 hours ago. When you declared war on the other women—who never miss a chance to ride you." Hogan wasn't blind; his wife's youth, beauty, and independence didn't go over well. Miri tried to protest. "Save it. I know you've been unhappy lately. Too much outside stuff taking away from your time with Patrick."

"And you," she hiccuped, blinking back tears.

He put a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. Looking her in the eyes--and even in the darkness, he could see they were brilliant with moisture--he said quietly, but adamantly, "When this tour is up, Miri, I'll put in for retirement. Twenty-two, twenty-three years is enough."

"Oh, Robin, your career. No, you can't." Miri was too shocked for coherence.

"Yeah, I can, and yeah, I'm going to." He watched the tears spill down her cheeks, ruining her mascara, one of her only concessions to cosmetics. Lipstick was the other. "It'll only get worse for you if I go for thirty. You'll only be more unhappy."

"Robin, you must have other reasons. You cannot be doing this exclusively for me."

"You're right; there are other reasons. All things being equal, though, I could endure them, make my thirty, and retire as at least a major general. But seeing that you're happy is more important to me than another star. So, as soon as possible, in goes the paperwork." He'd still do the same job, just in a civilian suit. It would get them both, but Miri especially, out of the goldfish bowl.

Miri hugged him tightly all the way home.


End file.
